


The Chimes At Midnight

by nitpickyabouttrains



Category: SHAKESPEARE William - Works, Shakespeare RPF
Genre: Blow Job, Can you find all the references?, M/M, if you dont count the title, references, shakespeare translates surprisingly well into sex, shameless pandering, there are 20
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-31
Updated: 2017-07-31
Packaged: 2018-12-09 08:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11665209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitpickyabouttrains/pseuds/nitpickyabouttrains
Summary: William and Marlowe work together (on writing and also sex)





	The Chimes At Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlameBlownWhiter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameBlownWhiter/gifts).



> Happy Midnight, FlameBlownWhiter! Again!
> 
> This is almost entirely me shamelessly using quotes from Shakespeare as dialogue about penises.

The bell tolled ten and then eleven in the distance, finishing its count. Late. 

“Must you keep moving about so?” Marlowe asked, waving his hand in the air in front of him, both to move the smoke out of the way and to imitate the movements William was making.

“Well?” William asked, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, as he paced in front of the desk, waiting for word. “What do you think?”

Marlowe let out a puff of tobacco smoke, but did not stop chewing on the end of his cigar. “As good luck would have it, I have it out now.”

“You’ve not finished reading yet?” William asked, though he could clearly see his play was open before Marlowe, and not even at the end. Still, he had hoped this was not Marlowe’s first time through, that he might have a review. “I left it for you days ago. I came back to  _ The Bear’s Pursuit _ hoping you might be ready to discuss-“

“I found myself rather-“ Marlowe paused and smirked, “preoccupied. If you permit me, I may read it now.”

There was a crash from the pub below them, then the sounds of shouting. William winced. They were not in a very respectable location; he would not have chosen it himself. But Marlowe was known to have rooms there, so it was the best place to find him. And William was determined to receive the help of the best playwright in London, possibly in all of England.

“Yes, yes, read on,” William said, frustrated. He had hoped Marlowe would read  _ Two Gentlemen Of Verona _ , the play he had written before coming to London to make his name, in the intervening week. But now would have to do. 

William resumed his pacing, to keep himself distracted. He wandered over to the window, where the faint light of the moon filtered through the unwashed and smoky pane of glass. It never seemed to be dark in London, even in the middle of the night. 

He was listening for the tell-tale sounds of pages being flipped, and when he did not hear it, he turned to look at the desk, only to find Marlowe standing behind him. He was blocking the view of the rest of the room, but really, there was nothing else to see. Rotating seemed to have brought William even closer; there were barely three centimeters separating them.

“We should work together,” Marlowe said, his voice deep and scratched, though still lacking seriousness. 

“You’ve finished, then?” William said, his eyes flicking over to his manuscript, before being drawn back into the man standing in front of him. 

Marlowe was taller then him, just enough that William had to lift his eyes to see anything but Marlowe’s lush and pouting red lips. William could feel each breath as it left Marlowe’s mouth, blown lightly onto his own face, smelling of tobacco and cloves. 

“That is neither here nor there,” Marlowe said, his eyes twinkling with an unknown mischief.

“You haven’t read a single word this evening, have you?” William asked, his eyes not leaving Marlowe’s, unable to pull himself from the shining gaze. 

Marlowe shrugged unhurriedly. “Ah, the game is up, I suppose. No, I have not. But that does not matter. You are good. I think we might work well together.”

William was both drawn in by the idea of working with such a successful playwright, and appalled at the thought that his work was going unread. He had slaved for years, working tirelessly, before finishing the play enough to travel with it to London. “You must read it. That work is my heart. I have not slept one wink, writing it.”

“Then you wear your heart upon your sleeve for daws to peck at, having a play for all to see as your passion,” Marlowe said, letting out a light chuckle, as if he found William amusing. 

William winced at the thought, at having his heart exposed for all of London. And yet he could not stop the thrill of excitement that ran through his body at the idea. The white hot fire started in his gut and rose up, filling him. This was what he was meant to do. 

Yet he could not help but be hurt at how lightly Marlowe took it, how he treated William’s work with so little thought. “Your words are razors to my heart,” William admitted. “Do you have so little regard for what I have placed on the page?”

“I have read enough to know you write well,” Marlowe said. “Nothing will come of nothing, but that is not what you have. You have great works in you.”

Then, slowly, so slowly that William could see every movement, every flex of Marlowe’s muscles in his face and chin, Marlowe leaned in closer. William had more than enough time to see what was happening, to say something or to move out of the way. But he held his ground, kept his face turned up to Marlowe’s and waited to see what the older man would do. 

Marlowe’s mouth was hot and demanding on his, tongue prodding and lips firm. It was a kiss unlike any William had ever had, full of passion and fire. 

William leaned in to the solid force that was Marlowe, who stood fast and took William’s weight without complaint, only a soft moan into his mouth. Grasping for something to hold onto, William’s hands reached for Marlowe, first his arms, then his waist, before finally finding purchase hooked into Marlowe’s belt. 

“I thought you an innocent flower,” Marlowe said, pulling back just a little. His lips were redder than before, and swollen from the pressing kiss, but they were turned up at the ends, amused. “But perhaps you are the serpent underneath.”

“I am no flower,” William said, surging forward for another kiss. 

Marlowe’s mouth opened below his but almost immediately he began to control the kiss. He reached toward William’s crotch, and William groaned, feeling his hard length against the other man’s hand. 

“If no flower, then is this a dagger which I see before me,” Marlowe whispered in William’s ear, running his hand along William’s dick, through his pants. 

William rested his forehead on Marlowe’s chest, unable to do anything but breathe heavily at Marlowe’s ministrations. He had not felt such pleasure but at his own hand, and the presence of the other man made all the difference. “All the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten your hand,” William will out between gasps for air. 

Marlowe’s hand began to move faster, and William pressed up against him, seeking the pleasurable pressure everywhere at once. A wave of heat rolled through him and he felt himself finish, far too quickly. 

“Oh,” William let out a low breath, “I-”

He looked up at Marlowe who did not seem bothered at all that their enjoyment was now cut short. “The end will come when it will come,” Marlowe said softly. “What’s done is done.”

But not all was done, because William could feel the older man’s member pressing against his hip. Wordlessly, he slid down the firm body he was pressed against, landing on his knees. His hands reached for Marlowe’s trousers and made quick work of the stays, so that they fell to the ground, bar his body to William. 

Marlowe placed a gentle hand on top of William’s head and guided him toward his out-standing cock. “You have a lean and hungry look,” Marlowe said, his voice gravelly. 

“A dish fit for the gods,” William murmured back, before opening his mouth and taking Marlowe into him.  

William ran his tongue over the dick, his mouth enclosed over it. He bobbed his head, covering as much skin as he could, and then backing off for air. The pace he set was not hard and Marlowe did not dictate much more then grabbing William’s hair when he did something right or well. 

William took his time, savoring the heavy feel on his tongue, the salty taste, the musky smell. His senses were overwhelmed, but in such a way that he found he did not want to stop. No, he wanted more.

Still, he forced himself to slow, to keep pace, lapping his tongue over the head of the cock, and pushing vein underneath very lightly with his teeth. 

“Tempt not a desperate man,” Marlowe said, pulling at William’s hair. 

William understood what was being asked of him and closed his lips tighter, pushing as far down on the member as he could, and sucking tightly. He could not keep the action up for long, but he did not have to, as he felt Marlowe stiffen even more in his mouth, and then release. 

Dazed, William fell back, his mouth sliding off the other man, and looked up at Marlowe from the ground. Marlowe sank to his knees as well, the fluid motion of a man relaxed and loose-limbed. 

There was a lazy smile on Marlowe’s lips, and for the first time all evening, William found he had nothing to say. He smiled back, and the two man reclined into each other, finding a sort of peace on the ground of the room.

No sound but the breathing of the two men penetrated the room. William could practically hear the blood rushing through his body, could feel it in the touch of the man sitting with him. Even the noise from the pub seemed small and far away, no longer the drunken distraction it had been earlier in the evening. 

“I like this place,” William said, surprising himself. He had considered  _ The Bear’s Pursuit _ a house of ill repute. But the privacy it provided was proving most wonderful. “And willingly could waste my time in it.”

Marlowe shook his head slowly, as if clearing it. “Can one desire too much of a good thing?”

“That is the question,” William said, a touch of wryness in his voice. It had been a good evening, but he understood that it would not always be this way. 

“The question,” Marlowe repeated, “remains if we might work together.”

“Yes,” William said, no longer bothered that Marlowe had not read all of his work. Instead, he was glad for an excuse to come back. And it would give him the chance to work with the playwright, even if not on his own projects. 

Marlowe’s grin widened, “Good.”

“Good,” William repeated, though the last sound turned into a yawn. He sighed lightly, but knew it was late. “And I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

It was time for William to leave; the night was dark and deep, and he could not stay until the morning.  But he would be back; their collaboration was not over. 

Outside, from the midnight black, came the sound of the ringing bell.  _ Nine...Ten...Eleven...Twelve.  _


End file.
